


The Iron Striker

by Artemiss



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alpha Sergio Ramos, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Future Mpreg, I Don't Even Know, I am omegaverse trash, M/M, Mates, Omega Fernando Torres, Rating May Change, Warnings May Change, boys with vaginas, eventual Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos, girls with penises, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2674739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemiss/pseuds/Artemiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fernando Torres is an omega in hiding, presenting himself as a beta so that he can play in the professional leagues. Sergio Ramos is his close friend and an alpha who's harbored a secret crush on the striker for years. What will happen when their various truths come to light?</p><p>Or:</p><p>Fernando’s like iron. Sergio hopes to be the spark that ignites the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this fic is my baby. My slutty, slutty baby. It's been in the works for over a year, and I have finally decided that it is time to begin sharing it with the world. 
> 
> This story came from a combination of reading way too many omegaverse fanfics and seeing way too many pictures of Fernando Torres shirtless. Before I could even think to stop it, an unholy union had already taken place in my mind. I needed pregnant Nando like I needed air. 
> 
> And then this happened.
> 
> There is really nothing else I can say for myself. I only hope you enjoy the ride!
> 
> And in case you are wondering: yes, I am omegaverse trash, and I'm not even a little bit sorry.

Prologue Part One: Monday

 

            Step one: Wake up. Take 1 pill Tru-mega with glass of water. Yawn.

            Step two: Take very long shower. Towel-dry.

            Step three: Find packer. Probably in yesterday’s pair of pants.

            Step four: Smell it. (Still clean.)

            Step five: Find and put on harness. Insert and position packer. Put on clean pair of boxers overtop.

            Step six: Jiggle check.

            Step seven: Find bottle of Alpharex. Spritz once under each arm, once on the crotch. Wince. Apply deodorant.

            Step eight: Pick outfit. Examine reflection in mirror for no less than fifteen minutes.

            Step nine: Pray.

            Step ten: Repeat steps one through nine, every single morning.

~

            Fernando knows he could never have fooled anyone into thinking he was an alpha. He just doesn’t look like an alpha, or, God forbid, smell like one. Luckily, he doesn’t have to. All he has to do is look and smell enough like a beta that no one bothers to look twice at his wide hips, at his soft skin, at the gap between his legs where a beta-boy’s pocket-rocket would be. All he has to do is keep to himself and he’s free as a bird.

            Theoretically.

            That’s the problem with being an omega. Want a house? Fine. Want an alpha? Perfect. Want a few kids? Wonderful. But if you want something else, if you want _more_ , that’s when trouble comes after you like the moon chasing the sun.

            It’s just his luck that he wants to play professional football.

            Omegas don’t play professional football. At least, they’re not supposed to. The Premier League, La Liga, the Bundesliga, and MLS all have strict alpha-beta only regulations. No Omegas Allowed. After all, according to FIFA, omegas are at such a clear physical disadvantage that letting them participate with alphas or even betas would be ludicrous. FIFA directs all interested omegas to the Omega Football League.

            The Omega Football League is bullshit. There’s no money in it, because no one can convince advertisers that the public would watch a bunch of omegas kick a ball around when there are leagues full of alphas and betas duking it out on every other sports channel known to mankind, and in high definition. And even if you don’t believe, as Fernando doesn’t, that omegas are physically inferior, it doesn’t matter. Given that omegas only make up fifteen percent of the population, they just don’t have the talent pool to compete with the other two dynamics put together. Fernando knows this is true, even if it stings. It’s simply mathematics.

            On the other hand, population percentages _being_ the way that they are is the only thing that kept the Strict Seperatists from having their way with the professional leagues and “purifying the sport” altogether. If they could have eliminated the betas too, they would have. Unfortunately for them, there just aren’t enough alphas in the world to keep it running all by themselves.

~

            Step one: Go for morning jog. Work up just a bit of a sweat.

            Step two: Eat breakfast. Protein. Boring.

            Step three: Brush teeth. Contemplate existence.

            Step four: Get in the goddamn car and drive to work.

~

            Fernando considers himself lucky.

            Even if he was born an omega, he was lucky enough to be born right around the time when announcing a newborn’s status went out of fashion. His parents wouldn’t even tell his own grandparents. Their silence didn’t keep people from guessing, but nobody was about to pull down Fernando’s pants and check for themselves, so he got through childhood pretty much unscathed.

            His parents told him what it meant to be an omega when he was five years old. They explained that some boys and girls had one type of private parts, while other boys and girls had a different type. Boys and girls who had Fernando’s kind of private parts could have babies. Boys and girls with the other kind of private parts could help make babies, but they couldn’t have babies themselves. Fernando’s parents told him that this made him special. Lucky, even.

            Fernando’s parents always told him that his status was his business; that it was special, like a secret. He could tell people, but only if he wanted to. It would be up to him who got to know and who didn’t. But Fernando was a smart kid. Very perceptive. He didn’t need to be told that wise omegas kept their statuses to themselves.

            Eventually, Fernando learned the grown-up words for the private parts he had. Cunt, vagina, pussy; those are good. Slit and minge both make him gag. Vag and twat and snatch are just fine. The worst of all is hole. Fernando has always considered it a great cosmic unfairness, the lack of good words for his junk when compared with all the great words for the other type of junk.

            Most days, he actually likes his junk. He thinks that it fits him well. He likes a lot of things about being an omega. When he strips naked in front of the mirror, he likes what he sees. He sometimes wishes it were easier to maintain muscle mass. He sometimes wishes he didn’t have to do a hundred crunches a night to possess visible abdominal muscles. But all in all, he’s pretty content with how things have played out. He’s been lucky, even.

~

            Step one: Change into uniform while in locker room. Face the wall. Do not make eye contact. This is not a drill.

            Step two: Ignore the terrifying death-rattle of heartbeat in head. Chat with friends.

            Step three: Water break.

~

            There are plenty of things Fernando doesn’t like about being an omega. He doesn’t like that the omegas in the movies never seem to know how math works. Or that there are only two omegas in the whole Spanish Congress; two out of two hundred and sixty six. And he hates the sound of those stupid advertisements for Omega Baby Story that always play whenever he’s watching reruns of the food network at three in the morning. And he’ll never forget the sound of his grandfather’s voice when he’d catch Fernando watching TV, how he’d snort and mutter “scratch an actor, find an omega,” like it was nothing, like _Fernando_ was nothing.

            Also heats. Being incapacitated once every six months with unquenchable sexual fires gets old real fast. Immediately after his first heat was over (as soon as the sheets were washed), his mother took him to the doctor who prescribed him Tru-mega. He’s been on it ever since. It changed his life, no joke. No more heats. Also, no pesky omega pheromones floating around, enticing alphas and betas alike. Tru-mega has made his body into a blank canvas. Science: it’s pretty cool.

            He knows it’s not forever. Tru-mega works wonders, but it isn’t without side effects. For one, it kills his nose. Omegas naturally have exquisite senses of smell, so he can still get by. But he misses smelling the flowers. And even if it’s ridiculous, part of Fernando still hopes that he’ll win the lottery, hit the jackpot, wish upon a falling star and find his mate. And to do that he’ll need every ounce of his olfactory capacities, because he has a feeling that, if he does have a mate, he or she is probably very, very far away from him.

            There’s also the headaches. Killer morning headaches. Like all great deities, Tru-mega giveth, and Tru-mega taketh away.

~

            Step one: Practice.

            Step two: Lunch. Take second pill Tru-mega with swig of water from warm water bottle.

            Step three: Bathroom break. Alone. Use the stall. Obviously.

~

            Meeting Olalla remains one of Fernando’s luckiest moments. He remembers it perfectly, the wind in her hair and the sun on her skin. She was an omega, just like him. She was quiet, and sweet, and she understood him. She laughed at his little jokes. They spent three quiet weeks together. Eventually, he told her what it seemed she already knew: that he was an omega, just like her. She was the first person he had ever told.

            He knew that he couldn’t give her children, nor could she him, but they were happy together. They knew that they weren’t really mates, but they also knew that they liked each other and that they liked spending time together and that they had the same favorite restaurant on the beach. It was enough. They stuck together.

            After a few years, they decided they wanted to start a family, come Hell or high water. In a compromise, they used his egg and picked a sperm donor together. Olalla carried the baby, of course, and Nando watched her grow. Nine months later his daughter was born. She was perfect. He posed for a few pictures and his life was changed forever.

            Fernando still loves Olalla. She still loves him. But the love has cooled off since the time when they first met, years ago. Fernando realized perhaps only too late that they make better friends than they do sweethearts. Theirs wasn’t the kind of heat that was really built to last. If he’s honest with himself, he can admit that he probably knew that all along.

~

            Step one: Head to locker room late, if possible.

            Step two: Change out of uniform. Face the wall. No one’s looking. Why would they be looking?

            Step three: Make conversation.

            Step four: Fucking drive home.

~

            Fernando’s not exactly sure when everything flattened out so much. Just one day he realized that football was more of a thing that he did than it was a thing that he craved. It was sad, and horribly unsad at the same time.

            No sense of smell, no hunger.

            He still tries. He still runs the ball from center field up towards the penalty box. But it’s like if you’re carrying a one pound weight; carry it for a few minutes, and it’s nothing. Carry it for half an hour and you start to slow down. Your arms are screaming. Your legs are tired.

            Well, he’s been carrying a weight since he was five years old. And he guesses it’s finally caught up with him.

            Fernando doesn’t know if that makes him lucky or not.

~

            Step one: Come inside. Greet family.

            Step two: Take shower. Wash away the smell.

            Step three: Dinner time.

            Step four: Try to play a game with your daughter. Realize you’re too tired to keep track of the pieces. Kiss her goodnight instead. 

            Step five: Go to bed by nine in the evening.

            Step six: Lather, rinse, repeat.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is prologue, part I. I know. Part II should be up soon. 
> 
> Exposition, exposition, exposition.
> 
> But after that, we're on for actual plot progression! I cannot promise quick updates, because I am hella slow but they WILL come. This story has weaseled its way so deep into my heart that I could never let it languish unfinished. And the ending's already written, so . . .
> 
> Yeah. Feedback! I love it! Tell me everything! Your hopes and wildest dreams!


	2. Prologue Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Artemiss, how come it takes you five months to put up a new chapter? I mean, it’s only about two-thousand words. What gives?
> 
> That is a very good question. The answer is: I am trash.
> 
> Also, of note: I’m fucking with the timeline. At the start Sergio is twenty-seven and Fernando is twenty-nine. Don’t worry, I’ll get us up to the present day and beyond. (We’re in for the long haul). Oh, and Nando only has one kid so far.

Prologue Part Two: Monday

 

            Sergio wakes up late on Monday morning and eats breakfast at his house, looking out at the fountain in his backyard. Three things occur to him, more or less in order:

            One: He genuinely hates every inch of his blue and white kitchen. 

            Two: He can only tolerate it anymore when he’s drunk.

            Three: He isn’t drunk, at least not yet. 

            He takes a pensive sip of orange juice.

~

            He arrives at practice more or less on time and walks into the changing room. It’s almost empty by this point, but that doesn’t phase him. He pulls his socks on over his shin guards, and they feel tight and dry like he likes them. His heartbeat bounces along, and it’s still a bit exciting just to step onto the pitch for practice. “Yo! Late-ass!” Ronaldo remarks, chewing his Spanish like a dog on a bone.

            “Shut your face, prettyboy!” He laughs. 

            He laces up his boots, grunting a bit as he switches legs on the bench. A few experimental jumps, cleats clicking on the concrete, and then he steps out of the room, down the hallway with its thin fluorescent lighting and into the brightness of the late morning. He shields his eyes with his hands and makes his way out to where the other guys are standing, clumped around the edge of the field. There, they wait for the trainers to arrive.

~

            Sergio has taken stock of his friends many times before with an awareness that he can admit probably borders on smugness:

            Ronaldo: Alpha, and goddamn self-satisfied about it.

            Ozil: Beta. No surprise there.

            Alonso: Beta. Pretty enough to be an omega.

            Iker: Alpha, believe it or not.

            Khedira: Alpha.

            Pepe: Beta.

            Rooney: Beta. Also, for the record, asshole.

            Sergio can rattle off the status of most of the people he has ever met. It isn’t that he’s particularly keen on the subject, and he certainly isn’t a dynamist of any kind, but he notices statuses the way most alphas do— with the disinterested eye of someone who knows with absolute certainty where he stands in the matter:

            Oscar: Beta.

            Griezmann: Beta.

            Bousquets: Beta.

            Messi: Beta.

            Torres:

            Torres:

            Torres: Fernando’s an interesting case. He’s a beta obviously, Sergio knows that much, but he barely smells like anything at all. Sergio has always assumed that it’s due to his frosty demeanor. 

            He’s joking. Sort of.

            Fernando doesn’t get close enough to people for them to figure out what he smells like. Sergio would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious. But every time he tries to corner the striker, to get a good whiff, Nando miraculously finds a way out: out of the room, out of the conversation, out of Sergio’s embrace. It would be maddening if Sergio took it as a challenge. Which he doesn’t.

            Sort of.

~

            Ozil makes his way over to their enclave, waving happily. Now it means they’ll be speaking in some polyglot of Spanish, English, and whatever else feels appropriate. Ozil laughs as if in anticipation of the conversation, and it strikes Sergio that he’s probably a pretty talkative guy when speaking his own language. Sergio slaps him on the shoulder, breaking out in a rough English “Good morning?”

            “Good morning!” Ozil lets out a kind of giddy laugh, the kind a person makes when he tries to speak in a tongue that isn’t his.  Then the trainers call them over, and Ozil breaks off to work with the forwards in a drill, and for Sergio it’s the fucking cones again, Iker’s off to do whatever it is he does, and the sound of footwork and the smack of ball against shoe is all they’re going to hear for the next half-hour.

~

            Sergio goes over his to-do list in his head:

            He’s ordered the banner, and bought all the tablecloths. He’s got the caterer on lock, and he’s picked the wines and beers he wants served.

            By now Maria, his party planner, should have sent out all of the invitations that were ready to be mailed as of last night. Well, all of them except one: the one he wants to put in the mailbox himself, with his own two hands.

            Fernando’s.

            He hopes the envelope will be sitting on the counter when he gets home. He asked her to leave it there for him, and she just smiled softly, almost knowingly, but agreed to do as he asked. It’s just so that he can double-check the address, can run his fingers over the seal on the back to make sure that it’s a good one, can be certain that the contents won’t somehow slip out before they arrive at their destination: Fernando’s house. Just a precaution he’s taking, because he wants to make sure that Fernando sees the invitation, because he wants to make sure that Fernando doesn’t have an excuse not to come.

~

            It’s not bad, all things considered. Drilling balls into the back of net may be the dumbest thing in the world, but damn if it doesn’t go quickly and almost half-enjoyably. The light is bright and the morning air rings with the dry heat of the sun before it’s had a chance to make things unbearably hot.

            There’s a water break before long, and he’s sweating lightly and happily. So far his back hasn’t been giving him too much trouble, so he’s happy about that. He stretches experimentally once or twice, then makes his way across the field to the pack of players crowded around the water bottle cart. He spots Iker and makes his way over to him. He’s frowning, but Iker’s almost always frowning. Sergio has often noted quietly, and loudly only once, when drunk, that Iker’s frown makes him look a dead ringer for a wet cat.

            “So your party’s coming along well,” he says.

            “Oh?” says Iker, cocking his head.

            “The decorations are all ordered. I’ve picked a caterer.”

            Iker nods, pursing his lips in approval. “Sounds nice.”

            “Thirty-one, huh? The old three-one.”

            “Uh huh.”

            “Do you know how hard it is to fit thirty-one strippers in a cake?”

            “I can only imagine.”

            “It’s very hard. We’ve started having to import them.”

            “Oh really?” says Iker, and his eyes glint. “Any from England?”

            Sergio raises an eyebrow. “. . . No?”

            “Hmm. Not even one?”

            “Not even one.” Sergio brings his fingers to his chin, strokes his beard, trying to figure out the game. “Something I should be aware of, Iker?”

            “Well,” Iker says, swallowing a grin. “I do find that as I get older I’m developing . .  something of a taste.”

            “A taste?”

            “An inclination.”

            “Ah. And what kind of inclination would that be?”

            Iker swallows, leans in conspiratorially. “Blonds,” he says. “I like blonds.”

            “Blondes?”

            “Or that,” Iker says with a shrug.

            “Blondes,” repeats Sergio, shaking his head. “I suppose that can be arranged. But I mean—” he starts.

            “And freckles.”

            “What?”

            “Blonds with freckles. It’s what—” and here he swallows thickly, “it’s what I’m into.”

            “Blonds with— what?”

            “Come on, Sergio. You don’t know any blonds with freckles who you could pay to jump out of a cake for me? Think harder, doofus.”

            Realization dawns on the defender and he smacks his captain on the arm. Iker bursts out laughing. “Hey!” Sergio says. “Not funny!”

            “You should have seen your face!” Iker’s laughing in his dry way, his whole upper body quaking with mirth. “Don’t worry, I’m not really going to ask you to share your little sweetheart with me.”

            “What?” Sergio’s thoughts drift briefly to Fernando and he feels his heart give an unwitting, involuntary lurch. “He’s not— I don’t— Come on! I don’t!”

            “Uh huh,” says Iker, not even bothering to hide his smug little grin. “You were about two seconds from alpha-ing out back there.”

            “Was not! Besides,” says Sergio with a huff, “You don’t even know if he’s coming.”

            Iker raises an eyebrow. “Did you invite him?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Then he’s coming.”

            Sergio scoffs, scraping the ground with the toe of his boot. He lets Iker’s statement hang in the air until some of its weight can fall away. He thinks of Nando smiling gently, thinks of how his little laugh sounds out whenever he’s happy. “It’s not like that, you know.”

            “Not like what?”

            Sergio squints. “I don’t have a crush on Fer.”

            Iker just shakes his head, chucking, and walks off towards the goal to warm back up.

            Sergio watches him go, his hands on his hips. He spits once, meaninglessly, and shakes his head. Practice goes on around him; the sun is bright like a mirror in the sky. So he knocks his boots on the ground, runs loose hands palms down over the jewel-green grass. His head returns in bits and pieces to images of hips and thighs, lips and cheeks, as if returning to a dream. It’s a short hour in the sun, and he barely notices who’s passing him the ball.

            Before long the air fills with dry heat from the early afternoon. The sun is sinking in the sky, over the dry grasses in the plains outside the city. The city is baked and made of glass and stone, sticky and burning with heat. The sweat drips down Sergio’s back; he feels it trickle into the divot of the curl of his spine. It hurts to look at the sky, the salt stings the corners of his eyes, he breathes heavy, and his mind is slow.

            By the time practice is over, he’s all worn out. He takes his shower and changes back into his civilian clothes. Just as he’s leaving he waves to Iker, who looks up at him and blows him a wet kiss. Sergio shakes his head, smiling to himself as he walks off.

~

            He’s in the car on his way home when it starts to get to him.

            The loneliness.

            Maybe it shouldn’t be bothering him: he’s only twenty-seven. He’s still so young. And yet, it does: it bothers him that he’s going home alone to an empty bed.

            He huffs, makes a sharp left.

            Peer pressure’s definitely part of it. Iker and Sara set the wedding date, and it seems as though the baby-having, the child-rearing, the wet-cat-looking marital bliss is only a matter of time.

            But beyond his captain’s fate, when he looks around he realizes that at least half of his friends are in serious relationships, and probably half of _them_ are already married! Seeing the notifications on Facebook has gone from being amusing to being kind of a downer. No matter where he looks, it seems like everybody else is starting their life: their _real_ life.

            He passes a billboard with a picture of a woman’s face; her eyes, dark and smoked out with makeup, remind Sergio of the strip club back in Seville that he went to a couple of times before he left for Madrid, where he watched girls wearing fake omega scent twirling about on a raised stage. 

            He thinks about it. Maybe he should pick someone up; go out to a bar and bring some beta girl home with him. But the thought already gives him heartburn, cause she’ll either freak out and cling to him like a shadow or she’ll be gone by morning with maybe a picture of him as a trophy that she’ll take while he’s still asleep.

            He sighs. When did ‘single’ become such a big deal?

~

            Sergio cooks himself dinner when he gets home; pasta like his mother taught him how to make. He eats on his back porch, under the yellow outdoor lights, and drinks a couple glasses of red wine.

            Alone. And maybe it’s just because the wine has loosened his mind, but the solitude feels more profound at night.

            He knows what the problem is: he’s waiting for his mate.

            Not just _a_ mate. _His_ mate.

            There’s a lot of bullshit in the culture about predestination and things like that. He tries to pretend that he doesn’t believe in it, and maybe a part of him doesn’t, but maybe a part of him does. A part of him does believe and that part of his brain won’t let him settle for anything less. 

            Maybe he’s just watched too many movies. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that for years now, he’s lived with his inner compass fixed on a single point: on a single person. And when he curls up in bed, tugging a pillow to his chest, it’s as if his very body knows something is missing, knows the shape of the body that should be lying beside him, curled up in his arms.

            Sergio knows that he’s crazy to think this way, to be so fixated on a person who’s married, a beta, and living in another country, someone he can never have. But Sergio also knows that his body doesn’t care. Sergio knows that when he dreams, it’s a particular set of hips and thighs, lips and cheeks that predominate, that fill his head to overflowing with their shapes. A particular pair of eyes with their particular shade of brown. And whenever the alpha thinks of _family,_ thinks of _the_ _future,_ he sees that freckled face in his mind’s eye.

            And Sergio?

            Sergio _wants._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh.
> 
> Never have I had a chapter give me *so much* grief. I rewrote this one so many times and even now, I'm not entirely happy with it. But such is life, I suppose, and I'm just barreling forward.
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it! Constructive criticism, thoughts, whatevs. I really love the feedback!
> 
> Your faithful servant,
> 
> Artemiss


	3. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello Ladies, Gentlemen, and everything in between! It’s been a while, but I come bearing gifts! Please enjoy this foray into a failing marriage. 
> 
> Also, the saddest jerkoff scene in history.
> 
> Actually though, real talk about this chapter: Even though this fic is pretty clearly an AU, I’m going to try to keep the presence of characters based off of non-famous people to a bare-minimum necessary to make the story work. Please understand that we’re treading on some very cracky, rediculous ground here, so enjoy it for the wild ride it’s gonna be and don’t take it too seriously. We’re all here to have a good time at the expense of famous people we’ll never meet, and that’s that. The content of this chapter and story do not reflect on the lives of any real people whatsoever, other than to acknowledge the self-evident fact that Fernando Torres would look pretty great pregnant.
> 
> *Ahem.*
> 
> So, without further ado:

Chapter One

"Sunday morning  
Praise the dawning  
It's just a restless feeling  
By my side"

~Velvet Underground,  _Sunday Morning_

            Saturday morning. There’s a crisp, white envelope on the counter for Fernando when he comes back inside from his morning run. It’s off-white and looks vaguely threatening. He almost doesn’t open it, preferring to just glare at it for imposing on his routine. But if Olalla set it out for him, it must be important.

            Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he picks up the envelope and turns it over. He scans it quickly, reading the soft cursive letters, and recognizes the address. It’s to Sergio’s house in Madrid.

            Which is weird. Because why would Sergio send him a letter? He squeezes it between his fingers, checking the contents. What could call for this kind of formality? Nothing, really. Who even sends letters anymore? But then a strange thought comes over him: you _do_ still send wedding invitations. What if Sergio’s getting married? Without wasting moment, Fernando tears the envelope open with shaking fingers. _He can’t be getting married. That’s ridiculous; he’s not even dating anyone._

            “You are cordially invited to the celebration of our Captain Iker Casillas’ thirty-first birthday.”

_Oh._ The striker collapses into the closest chair, his pulse thundering in his head. He really needs to eat something. He lets out a weary laugh. _Christ! Jesus Christ! That kid’s going to give someone a heart attack._ For a second he had actually thought, actually considered . . . No. Of course not. Sergio would have told him if he had met someone.

            Wouldn’t he?

_That kid,_ he thinks, s _omeday he’s going to be the death of me._

            He reads the rest of the invitation at a more leisurely clip. When he’s finished he gets up, feeling a bit light-headed, looking about for a pen, and then he hears Olalla from the next room.

            “Hey, do we have to be anywhere on the 25th?”

            Olalla pokes her head in from the living room. “I don’t think so. Check the calendar.”

            Fernando complies, walks over to where it hangs on the wall. “It says your parents?”

            “Oh, yeah,” comes the answer. “We were supposed to head up there that weekend with Nora.”

            “Mmm,” says Fernando, glancing down at the date printed on the invitation.

            “What’s this all about?”

            “Oh,” says Fernando, leaning over as Olalla presses a kiss to his cheek, “There’s going to be a party for Iker’s birthday on the twenty-fifth.”

            “Where?” she asks, loading a plate from breakfast into the sink.

            “Well, Sergio’s throwing the party. Ramos. So I guess it’s at his place?”

            She swats him gently on the arm with the kitchen towel. “I know who Sergio is, dummy!” She finishes drying off her hands. “You should go.”

            “Really?”

            She smirks. “You hate going to see my parents anyway.”

            He holds up his hands. “Don’t look at me like it’s my fault! They’re still angry with me because _you_ didn’t marry an alpha.”

            “Yeah yeah,” she says, quirking her lips up. “Why not? He’s your friend. You should be there.”

            “I don’t want to leave you alone though.”

            She gives him a look. “Please, Fernando, come on. We can see my parents any time. Birthdays are just once a year, after all.”

            She’s got that stiffness in her mouth again like when she’s biting back her words. She’s probably a little put out with him, to be honest (and not that he blames her), but he doesn’t want to start another one of those “no, whatever _you_ want” fights, especially not on an empty stomach. So he concedes the point. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll go, if that’s okay with you.”

            “‘Course!” she says, then looks away, letting the silence fall between them. He stares at the floor. It occurs to him that she’s checking the calendar. “Hey, says here you’ve got a doctor’s appointment in an hour? Are you eating anything? Christ, Nando, you’re going to be late!”

            “No, it’s fine. Not supposed to eat. I’m just going to take a quick shower.”

            “Alright,” she says, “you’ve got five minutes,” as he ducks off down the hallway.

~

            She hides it well.

            So does he. But she’s especially good at it.

            She knows how not to make him feel it: this tightness between them. As if they’ve both been stretched thin.

            The problem is that they don’t know how to talk. They never did, really. He was always adept at keeping everything inside, and she was adept at not minding too much. She told him she loved him for it, how careful he was. Careful about everything. She thought it made him special.

            He’s not convinced.

            He thinks it makes him lonely.

            This is not a belief he’s always had. When he was younger he always figured he would outgrow his shyness, that one day he’d wake up and realize that he could just _talk_ to people like a normal human being. That he’d be able to talk to her, spill out the little swirling dreams that live in his heart onto her lap.

            As it turns out, he did not outgrow it. And by age twenty-nine he’s finally accepted that this is what he is. He’s never going to be the life of the party. He’s never going to be the flirt, or the coquette, or the alpha-dog. He’s going to be him: his shy, awkward, inaccessible self. At the age of twenty nine, Fernando feels like he knows what’s going to change about him and what’s going to stay the same; it’s like he’s seen all his behavior patterns and defense mechanisms in action and now it’s only a matter of watching them repeat themselves over and over again until he dies of old age.

~

            Fernando’s in the car and on the way to the doctor’s office before he even knows it. His stomach rumbles unhappily. They’re doing bloodwork, which means that he’s had to fast for the last twelve hours. Nothing but water.

            Fernando nearly passed out the first time they told him they needed to run a blood test. “Just standard procedure,” the doctors informed him, “to prevent doping.” If only he had known then that the only tests they’d be running, the only tests they were authorized to run would measure his testosterone levels and check for the presence of HGH in his blood. His testosterone levels, as it turned out, were right at the very low end of normal for a beta (although coincidentally right in the middle of the normal range for male omegas), and of course there was no HGH to be found. Had they searched for a few other choice compounds, oh, they would have had a field day: a cocktail of progestins and other synthetic hormones; the unmistakeable traces of Trumega. But they weren’t authorized to look for those other things in his blood; they were just looking for HGH. So paradoxically, Fernando walked out of the office that day with a clean bill of health.

            Nowadays getting his blood drawn is just standard procedure. He barely even feels the nervousness anymore. Or at least, it’s a different kind of nervousness. The fact is, no one’s on the lookout for omegas pretending to be betas. After all, why would they be?

            He pulls up to the training compound and parks the car. He walks inside the athletic centre to where the doctor’s room is. A nurse greets him at the desk up front, takes him back to the exam room and tells him it’ll be just a minute. So he settles on the weird cushioned table-thing, and kicks his heels while he waits for the professional to arrive.

            A few minutes later the doctor, a portly beta with thinning blond hair and a ruddy face comes into the room, clipboard in hand, says “Hello Mr. Torres, how are you feeling today?”

_Hungry._ “Fine. And you?”

            “Oh I’m well. Lovely day.”

            “Yes.”

            “Good, good,” says the doctor absently. “Ok,” he says, taking Fernando’s arm, “Just like always, you’ve been fasting for at least twelve hours?”

            “Yup,” Fernando says, biting his lip. “Just like always.”

~

            Fernando’s on his way out of the office about twenty minutes later: enough time to draw blood, take his height and weight, give him the standard quiz on what he’s been eating and drinking and so on and so forth and just like always, nothing’s out of the ordinary. The doctor cracks the same jokes he always does, gives the same advice —‘drink water with each meal; hmm, your potassium levels are a little high, curious; avoid bananas’— and not once does he ever turn to Fernando (like he always expects will happen) and say: “But this is all bullshit, because you’re an omega, aren’t you, Mr. Torres?”

            A part of him wants to shout in the good doctor’s face: “Look at me! Don’t you realize I’m an omega? You’re supposed to be a fucking medical professional!” It’s almost ridiculous sometimes how easy it can be to pass, and that fact alone makes him crazy, always waiting for the shoe to drop. And with every appointment, the part of him that wants to self-destruct gets just a little bigger, comes a little closer to the surface. A strange desire to annihilate everything, like that feeling one gets when a train comes barreling into the station and you think: “I could do it. I could jump in front of that train. And why not?”

            Fernando snorts. Who knows anymore? Would it be so bad to say it? At least that way, the fucking jig would be up. He wouldn’t have to live in this weird, horrible, mundane limbo that has, somehow, become his whole fucking life.

            But then, of _course_ that would be bad. Because then they’d have to stop selling those little bobble-heads of him in the team gift shop, which he knows are so popular.

_Well,_ he thinks with an ostentatious sigh, _I live to serve._

~

            He’s officially starving, and he’s still got shopping to do. So he finds a place to park the car and walks to his favorite sandwich shop near the training compound, keeping his eyes down and walking as quickly as his body will allow. Still a young man and his son come up to him, asking, “Excuse me, are you . . .? We’re your biggest fans!”

            So he looks up, tries to smile in earnest. The little boy stares up at him, maybe eight or nine years old. He’s got blonde hair, large blue eyes and freckles, thin lips and a curved nose that reminds Fernando a little bit of his own.“Will just loves you,” says the boy’s dad. “You’re his absolute hero!”

            “Oh,” says Fernando, kneeling down so he’s at eye level. “Nice to meet you.”

            The little boy sucks in a deep breath, his lip quivering, hands in fists at his sides. Then he leaps into Fernando’s arms, wrapping his own skinny ones around Fernando’s neck.

            “Will!” says his dad admonishingly.

            “No, no,” says Fernando, patting the boy on the back. “That’s alright.”

            The boy pulls back, and his eyes are shining. “Wow,” he says breathlessly.

            Fernando’s really having trouble maintaining eye contact. Cause this kid is looking at him like he’s the greatest thing in the world and, to be honest, he’s never really been sure how to take that. “It’s okay,” he says, trying to take the edge off. “It’s okay.”

            “I wanna be like you,” the boy blurts out. “A footballer.”

            “You play football?”

            “I wanna be— I’m gonna be the first omega to— to play in the world cup!”

            “He’s got high hopes,” injects the boy’s father, who by now Fernando has deduced must be a beta. His stance is wide and non-threatening, but he’s got not even a wisp of alpha musk. Which means there’s no way in Hell he understands what his son has just said. Not really.

            Fernando does though. And it feels like a punch in the gut. _Oh kid,_ he thinks, _you don’t know what the world is gonna do to you._ He glances over the boy up and down, taking in once more the delicate set of his chin and his feathery hair _._ “Oh,” he says, trying to stay bright, “No doubt. I believe you can do it.”

            And the boy grins so wide it makes Fernando’s heart hurt.“I’m gonna remember this forever!” says the boy and hugs him tight, so Fernando returns the gesture, wrapping his arms gently around the boy’s birdlike shoulders. Scrawny little thing.

            After they take a picture or two together, he sends the kid on his way with just one more hug and then carries on walking to the sandwich shop as quick as he can; only another block. He orders his usual order from the beta behind the counter who’s seen him enough times that she doesn’t even perk up when he walks in the room anymore. He also gets a diet Pepsi (“Pesi"), because _fuck it._ As soon as the order’s ready, he takes it in a bag and rushes back to his car like a thief. And there, he eats in the driver’s seat, all the windows rolled up, the sweat dripping down his face from the heat.

            But it’s worth it, so long as he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.

~

            Before he returns to the house, he drives back into town and stops at the licorería. He wants to get a bottle for the party. Not for Iker; he’ll think of something else for Iker. But for Sergio, to have something nice to hand to him. Sergio’s been on this whole sophistication kick as of late, so Fernando’s sure he’ll appreciate the effort.

            The clerk or whatever he’s called is smooth, just sidles up beside Fernando and asks: “Looking for anything in particular?” It’s a nice gesture, actually, to pretend he’s just an average man looking to buy a bottle of wine, instead of whatever it is that he actually is.

            “No,” he says, then adds: “something nice for a party gift.”

            “Ah,” says the clerk, then pulls down a bottle from the top shelf and then another from a shelf next to it. “Try these,” he says, handing the bottles to Fernando, one in each hand.

            The clerk gives a spiel about each bottle, then leaves Fernando to himself. He frowns, weighing the bottles in his hands. They’re both red, which he supposes is good. To be honest, he doesn’t really drink. Can’t hold his liquor, and the pills only make it worse. In the end, he just picks the one with the fancier label and brings it up to the register.

            “Ah,” says the clerk with a grin, “I see you’ve got great taste.”

_Mm,_ Fernando thinks, _great taste indeed._

            The man offers to wrap the wine bottle, but Fernando declines. And then he’s out the door, the man reminding him to “come back soon!”.  

            When Fernando gets home, he finds the house is empty. He sets down the bottle of wine on the counter, frowning. He wanders around just to be sure, checking room after room. It’s probably pathological, his need to know when exactly he’s home alone. But no matter; he soon confirms it with sight.

            Fernando finds himself returning to the kitchen without much sense of what to do. So he does what he always does when he feels aimless: he starts cleaning.

            He thinks about putting on some music, but then he doesn’t, because all he’s got on his iPod is nineties rock and roll. Because when he was growing up, he had a total chip on his shoulder about listening to anything that might make him seem too much like an omega: Kate Bush, Tori Amos, Alanis Morisette. The works. For an over-determined omega kid hellbent on being seen as a beta, it was Alpha-driven alt-rock all the way.

            But right now Fernando is tired and rough-around-the-edges and he really doesn’t want to listen to some angry alpha kid yelling about the establishment. So he putzes about the kitchen in silence, putting the pots and pans away to the sound of nothing but his own frustration. It’s moments like these when he bemoans the fact that he never took the time to diversify his musical palette, never even put anything that wasn’t rock or Spanish music on his iPod out of some paranoid fear that a teammate might nick it from his locker while he’s changing and say: “The Smiths? Really? What are you, some kind of pansy?”

            It’s a shame, because he actually really _likes_ Kate Bush. _Fuck_ those alpha pricks, _Wuthering Heights_ is a great fucking song.

            There’s something prickling under his skin, refusing to allow him to settle. It’s almost like an itch, except there’s nothing to scratch. So after scrubbing the sink a little more aggressively then he probably needs to, he moves on to the living room and then the playroom. Legos, legos, and more legos. He puts them all in their big plastic bin, hoping he hasn’t messed up any secret three-year-old-plans.

            Then before he know’s it, the playroom’s organized as well, and he _still_ feels antsy. Like the lightest breeze could set him off, send waves of goosebumps down his skin.

            He makes his way to the bedroom, hoping to find something more to clean. It’s when he opens the door that he finds himself stopping short, just inhaling the scent that is the two of them. And even though he lives here, even though he was here just this morning, it somehow makes his knees a little weak.

_Oh,_ he thinks. _I’m horny._

            Then he laughs. Actually laughs out loud. Because that’s just _perfect._

            Fernando can’t even tell when he’s horny anymore.

            Fernando leans up against the wall, genuinely needing the support, genuinely needing the feel of the cool plaster against him, something to keep him steady. He shakes his head, still chuckling, and wipes a tear from his eye.

            _When did even sex become so complicated?_

            He likes sex. At least, he thinks he does. It’s the who he has sex with that’s the issue.

            The who he has sex with being no one. Fernando firmly believes that “omega-bed death” is a bullshit social construct, but the problem is that he is an omega whose bed is dead.

            Which is probably sort of sad. Sad in some abstract way, that you should not be bone-dry at the age of twenty-nine. A disruption of the moral order, perhaps. 

            But after the kid, it’s kind of like he forgot how to ask for it.

            He’s identified as pansexual since he was fifteen. Hypothetically, he always figured that he could fall in love with any gender, if given the chance. Could want it with anyone. And it was like that for him once. He wanted people. Found himself staring at boys and girls in the classroom, wondering what it would feel like to kiss them, to have their bodies pressed up against his. But somehow the rawness of that teenage want seems so foreign to him now. He doesn’t even find people sexy when he walks down the street anymore, barely notices the faces of the people who he’s talking to.

            It’s been a while since Fernando’s been fucked.

            Because if there’s one thing that’s been consistent about his desires over the last fifteen years, its how he likes his sex. How he likes to be held down, to feel someone driving against him, feel their hands inside him. How he likes to feel a mouth firm and hot against his tenderest parts while firm hands hold him steady. How he likes, in some reptilian part of his brain, to feel full and sated and like he might make good on the promise written into the shape of his hips and the softness of his skin if he’s only just _fucked_ right, like he’s desirable.

            Not that that has never even been a possibility with the partners that he’s had.

            Only two.

            It’s been a while since anyone’s held him down.

            Fernando sits on his side of the bed, runs his thumb over the doorknob to the dresser drawer. Under some washcloths he knows he’s got a few toys, but he hasn’t used them in so long, the batteries are probably dead. Yeah, he knows, sad. Still he can’t quite take his hand off the door handle, can’t quite stop moving his fingers.

            It’s crazy. The things he wants sometimes. He feels crazy and woeful for being so lonely, yet never knowing how to say “hey, it’s been a while. Are you up for it?”

            Or: “Please fuck me with your pink strap-on the way you used to: deep and hard and like you love me to my very bones. Please fuck me so I can’t walk right at practice Monday. Please leave marks on my back, my neck, my hips, my thighs. Leave marks on me that make the guys in the locker room wolf whistle when they see me changing.

            “Please. Do it the way you used to.”

            Or: “Please, make me feel beautiful again.”

            But that’s selfish, isn’t it? To want it like that? What right does he have to want these things, when he’s only home after sunset, when he goes whole months traveling the world for tournaments when she stays home, does the laundry, does the hard parts?

            He lets his hands drop into his lap, bites his lip, glances to the window.

            With a sigh, Fernando gets up, smoothing the sheets back into order from where he’d been sitting on them. He’s aware that he’s gone back to fussing, but he doesn’t know what else to do. So in a fit of desperation, he decides to take a shower.

            He pads into the bathroom, flicks on the light and leans in to turn on the water, let it warm up. Then he shuts the bathroom door and strips, taking off his t-shirt, his shorts. He lets the stupid packer with its harness slip down his legs, wiggling his feet so he can step out of it, kicking it off to the corner with the rest of his clothes.

            He feels lighter. Not wearing the packer makes him feel weirdly naked, the way he imagines a dog without a collar must feel. It’s a different level from just normal-naked. He feels freer. 

            It’s nice.

            Fernando steps into the shower, which is steamy and hot now. He sticks his head under the stream, lets it soak his hair and drip down his neck, his shoulders, his back. The sensation is lovely, and he kind of feels like it’s washing away the film of his whole day, like it’s washing the inside of his head clean too.

            But it’s not doing anything for the buzzing, the itchiness under his skin. He feels antsy. He wipes the water from his eyes, then opens them, looking up at the ceiling. Stepping back, he lets the water hit his chest, tries not to think about anything tries just to focus on the feeling of its heavy, rhythmic pulses on his skin.

            Its pulses on his skin . . . .

            He slowly lets his eyes drift up the tubing that leads from the wall to where the shower head hangs on its holder. He swallows thickly.

            No, absolutely not. He’s not going to masturbate with the shower head because he is not a fucking twelve-year-old.

            And yet— And yet—

            The idea itself feels somehow sleazy and dirty, but at the same time, kind of titillating. He feels a little flare of heat in the pit of his belly. Maybe twelve is undercutting it a little. He hasn’t done it at least since he was fifteen. Fernando tilts his face up into the falling water, lets his eyes fall shut, trying to clear his mind. But nope, the impulse is still there.

            He sighs. He can’t believe himself sometimes.

            He reaches up, wraps a palm around the handle and takes down the shower head. The water’s hot but not too hot, and he tests it up close on his palm, adjusting the dial a little bit. Then he sits down on the shower bench seat.

            It’s been a while since he’s done this. But if he remembers—

            Fernando leans back against the cool tile, lets his legs fall apart. He sits there for a second, just trying to tamp down the shyness, or excise the last shreds of his pride, whichever of the two it is that’s holding him back. Then with a turn of the wrist, he’s positioned the shower head just so, so that he feels it, nice and warm and hitting the arch of his pelvis. He sighs, letting the tingling feeling spread through him and it makes him— it makes him want to—

            “Ah— Ah—”

            He leans back, biting his lip, pushing his shoulders back into the wall. Because it feels good, feels like electric pulses almost, feels paralyzingly nice. It feels like how he remembers it. And it gets better as he brings the head in a little closer, feels it a little heavier on the curve of his vulva and God, it’s been so long that he could use the release, he really needs it.

            He’s got two fingers of his free hand moving steadily now, sliding over himself, spreading slick. The other hand holds the shower head steady, as steady as he can manage. He bucks his hips forward to the edge of the seat. Water’s all over him, dripping down his arm and legs and he just— feels it spreading through him. Arousal, hot and searing. He wants. God, but he _wants._ Like he’s a teenager again.

            He bucks his hips again, letting out a pant or two when the water glides over his clit. Yep, he thinks, yep. He can definitely cum like this. It’s a realization that dawns on him with a weird mix of surprise, relief, and self-satisfaction.

            It’s at this point that his mind starts to spin off into fantasy. Nothing too specific, because he knows that would kill the fun. Just imaginary lips on him, a tongue on him, licking and pushing into him and God, fingers, someone else’s fingers spreading him wide, teasing him, keeping him on the edge of the cliff, the edge of orgasm. A voice in his ear, whispering: “Do you want it? Oh God, _look_ at you _. How gorgeous you are._ Tell me what you want.”

            Anyone; anything: hands on his body. Someone touching him, telling him he’s beautiful. What a good omega he’s being. How soft and sweet he is and how ready he is to be—

            The front door opens, and Fernando hears it echo through the house. He hears feet on the kitchen tile. “Hello,” says Olalla, “Anybody home?”

            Fernando freezes, not even breathing, waiting for confirmation that he’s not imagining things. Then he hears it, more noise, a low and consistent smack of shoes on the floor and things on the counter. Fernando bites his lip, lets out a deep sigh. “Fuck,” he whispers, letting his eyes fall shut. He just lays there, panting in and out. It’s gone. The orgasm he was chasing has just evaporated in an instant, and he kind of wants to cry.

            But he doesn’t. Slowly he leans forward, shuts off the water. “I’m here!” he calls out, slumping forward, elbows on knees, before slowly getting to his feet.

            She’s still moving around the kitchen: he hears the noises of cabinet doors being opened and closed again. “I went to the grocery store. Can you help me with the bags?”

            “Sure,” he responds, “I’ll be out in a second!”

            A minute later he’s fully clothed and bounding down the hallway. He gets there just in time to grab the last bag from her hands as she’s crossing the threshold and carry it to the kitchen counter a few steps away. 

            “Hey. What took you so long?”

            “Sorry,” he says, starting to rifle through the bag, “I was in the shower.”

            She pauses, then moves around him to the other side of the counter, putting juice and milk in the fridge. “Didn’t you shower this morning?”

            “Mm” he says, because that’s honestly the best he can come up with.

            They both finish putting the groceries, let Nora run off into the playroom. That’s when Olalla sees the bottle of wine, picks it up, reads the label.

            “What’s this,” she says, grinning. “Something fancy? Oh my!”

            “Yeah,” says Fernando, stealing a carrot stick from the fridge, “It’s for the party. Something for Sergio.”

            “Ah,” she says, setting the bottle down. He turns around just in time to catch the smile falling from her lips.

~

            Later that evening after dinner is the first time Fernando catches a break again. So he heads off into the living room with his cell phone. It’s only eight pm. Sergio probably hasn’t even started eating yet.

            Sergio picks up after two rings. “Hello?” he says in Spanish.

            “Hey,” says Fernando, curling up on the couch. He doesn’t explain any further, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to.

            “Hey Nando,” Sergio says in that deep, steady voice of his. Then he chuckles. “What’s up?”

            “Oh,” he says, “I just wanted to let you know that I can come.”

            “Oh? Oh! To the party!”

            Fernando scratches his head. “Yeah. So what should I bring?”

            “Nothing,” says the voice on the line, “just yourself. Is Olalla—“

            “No, she’s going up to see her parents that weekend. So it’s just me.”

            “Oh,” he says again, falling silent for a minute. “Well, that’s alright too.”

            “Okay?” asks Fernando, pursing his lip.

            “Yeah, yeah. ‘Course I’m alright. It’s just good to hear from you is all.”

            Then Sergio stops talking, and there’s just the gentle sound of breathing. Something crackles in the space between them in the silence. Fernando feels a little chill run up his spine.

            “Yeah,” he stutters out, “Nice to hear from you too.”

            Sergio laughs again, a deep warm, velvety thing. “You sound exhausted. Why don’t you head to bed, little one? Sounds like you need the sleep.”

            Fernando snorts. “Yeah,” he says, “okay, Sergio, goodnight.”

            “Goodnight,” says Sergio with that same smile in his tone. And then they both hang up. Fernando sits, holding his phone in his palm and just staring at it.

            That was weird. _Sergio,_ he thinks. _What an oddball._

_~_

            Fernando does slip into bed that night a little while later, after putting Nora to sleep, since it’s his turn. He reads her a book, or part of one, which he suspects only winds her up more. Then before he knows it he’s brushing his teeth and staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. Tired pupils. Lines under his eyes. Yeesh. 

            He heads into the bedroom and changes into his pajamas. Olalla’s reading in bed, but as soon as he slips under the covers she sets the book down with a gentle sigh and turns off the light.

            Neither of them says a thing. And Fernando just shuts his eyes, trying to keep still while he waits for sleep to take him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aww! Poor thing. But don’t worry. I’m sure that phone call will give him shower-nozzle masturbation material for weeks.
> 
> In trivia/memorabilia related news: an alternate title considered for this work was The Good Omega. Get it? *The Good Omega?* Like that show with Julianna Marg— anyway.
> 
> P.S. No actual shame intended towards anyone with any body parts with regards to their masturbation methods (or lack thereof). There’s no wrong way to give yourself pleasure (ok there probably are a few but you know what I mean)! The attitudes reflected in this chapter belong to the character, not the author, and really, let’s give him a break. He’s had a hard day.


End file.
